Lullaby and . . . blink.
Thoughts race round as in a roller rink,
synaptic blasts compel me to over think.
The internal chatter, analytic clatter,
my mind besieged by too many a weighty matter,
as sleep seeps and insomnia creeps.
A lunar pique sets in phrenetic motion
the roaring tides of every nocturnal notion,
washing over my cerebral sands,
reaching inward to those once undisturbed lands.
Now my body fidgety fits and tortured turns,
as for relief it begging yearns,
while my psyche self-instructing wakened learns,
what in daylight my wearied brain too readily spurns.
There is no stillness in the night,
when slumber from me takes its flight,
leaving me a glazed-eyed hyper-manic,
on the threshold of some irrational panic.
I swear it's not insanity,
much more likely just inanity,
caught in a theater of cranial suspense,
a drama so mentally intense.
Come, oh, incubus if you must,
and do with me according to your lust,
but in the end, just give me rest,
and lay my head upon sleep's bosomed breast.
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